


Our Heads Could Leave Us Dead

by lov3well



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Smut, Slow Burn, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26429011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lov3well/pseuds/lov3well
Summary: “D-Do you think...that maybe...this was destined for us, Killua?”Killua glanced away, snow-dyed bangs shielding the fear from his eyes.“I think,” He uttered, his voice shaky. “That *we* were destined for us.”Two young adults share an ancient ability, one that, for decades, has been deemed an urban legend. A sort of telepathy that the individuals can switch on and off, regarded as “useful” and “revolutionary” by the Chimeran Government. Gon, a college senior, has hopes of becoming an environmental engineer. Killua, a white-collar worker, is preparing to take over his family’s business—Zoldyck Weaponry, upon his parents’ wishes. The boys meet on the night of New Year’s Eve, and despite the shock and fear of discovering their bond, agree to get to the bottom of it, while the heads of the government quickly track them down. What Gon and Killua didn’t anticipate, however, was the much deeper connection that would sprout between them.What will become of these chosen souls who hold such a sacred power?
Relationships: Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be for the hxh big bang, but I thought I'd just post it because I'll be submitting something different next year. If you like it, let me know and I'll try to finish it!

**_Prologue_ **

-^-

A small voice. 

It came when Gon was about the age of four, snot-nosed and cheery-eyed, still needing his Aunt Mito to help him button his shirt. Incipiently, the voice uttered only the most basic of words like “hiya” and “bye-bye” or even random, childish ones like “juice” and “pee.”

Within a year, Gon discovered that he could _talk back_ to the voice.

One day, sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet while playing with his toys, the voice had asked what his favorite color truck was, in which Gon replied, in his head, _The green one._

_That’s cool._ It returned. 

The voice was light and breathy, always pronouncing words—however simple they were—to the fullest extent, as if articulation was something Gon even listened for at that age. He grew fond of the voice, but he also feared it, wondering if other little boys had “friends” in their minds that made them giggle at the dinner table from silly jokes or tried to scare them in the middle of the night with dark stories. 

To communicate, Gon would mentally signal a distinct sound, his way of asking for permission. But that didn’t mean the voice always wanted to speak. There were many days when he'd been bored out of his mind, wanting to babble about his latest catch from the lake near their house, only to wallow in the silence of his head from the voice’s lack of response. 

Sometimes, the voice could be a bit mean, but Gon knew it didn’t mean to—that snark was just a part of what—or maybe who it was, and that he could be a bit annoying at times, constantly jumping from one topic to the next. 

When Gon turned eight, he decided to tell his family about the mysterious voice. 

His grandmother, Abe, sat at the table patiently as Aunt Mito stood in their tiny kitchen, stirring a pot of lamb and squash stew. Her faded cotton skirt was the perfect length for her nephew to tug on, and when he smiled at her with missing teeth, she couldn’t help but smile back. 

“Auntie, wanna know something weird?” 

Gon noticed his Aunt’s hesitation. Usually, when he asked her that, he’d whip out some slimy, gross creature he’d found in the forest or pour a rock collection onto the tile floor. But she answered him anyway. 

“What is it, honey?” She sighed, setting the ladle on the counter. They shared the same chestnut brown eyes, soft and kind even when life showed them the opposite. 

Gon kept his arms at his side, bouncing on one foot to the other. 

“There’s someone inside my head.” 

His announcement didn’t seem to rouse anything but a slight chuckle from Abe and rolling of eyes from Mito, who brushed a calloused hand through his jet black hair. He pouted, wondering why neither of them had taken him seriously. 

“Gon, that’s fine, honey. I had imaginary friends at your age, too.” She resumed cooking, adjusting the worn apron tighter around her waist. His grandmother, easily distracted with age, stared absentmindedly at a fruit fly resting on an old mango.

With nothing more to say, Gon retreated to his bedroom, the Power Ranger wall decal filling the space with color. He was upset that Aunt Mito had brushed him off and frustrated that he wasn’t able to explain whatever this _thing_ was. 

His head hit the pillows, legs dangling over the bed corner in exasperation. The aroma of spiced meat filled the small confines of his room, and as he considered heading back to the kitchen for dinner, a familiar chime rang in his head, followed by a greeting.

_Hi, Gon._

  
_____

A small voice. 

He did it during his private arithmetic lesson. He hadn’t been paying attention to Mr. Johnson’s explanation of the key differences between addition and subtraction, instead focusing on the long, thick hairs poking out of the instructor’s nose. Being the age of four learning six-year-old math facts, Killua was a bright child with a dim attention span.

_How long would it take to pluck every single strand?_ Killua thought to himself, blue, youthful pupils transfixed on the nostrils flaring at each pause for breath. He couldn’t wait for the lesson to be over, but it wasn’t as if there was something better waiting for him. Soon, it would be time for his parents to take him to their in-home office, where they would conduct his weekly performance evaluation. 

He feared his parents. Both highly respected business moguls, Silva and Kikyo Zoldyck were the monsters hiding under Killua’s bed and the cold-blooded, vicious millionaires smiling in front of the public. Since birth, he’d been their property, never to be spoken to by anyone other than them, his freakish older brothers, or their butlers. 

He let his mind roam, wondering if his younger brother, Alluka, had been fed or bathed or given a nap. A child shouldn’t have had to worry about their toddler sibling’s care, but since he was born, the Zoldycks took one look at Alluka’s chubby, smiling face and decided he wasn’t worth nurturing. 

Even at that age, Killua could tell his family wasn’t normal in the slightest. Normal families laughed with each other in the evenings, sharing warmth and endearment. Normal families held picnics and visited the beach and went on road trips. Normal families felt love and affection for one another, not contempt and control. 

Killua hadn’t any _idea_ of normal. 

Mr. Johnson’s voice started to fade. Killua found it hard to keep up, jumping in shock whenever his instructor reprimanded him for losing focus. His breaths became slower and fuller, his heartbeat longer and steadier. It was as if he left his body at the desk and freed his subconscious. It felt _easy_ , like floating on a cloud headed nowhere and everywhere, able to meet anyone. 

And in his head, he did just that.

_Hiya._

He hadn’t known then that he was actually communicating with someone; It took about a year to even get a response from whatever—or whoever was on the receiving end. One day, watching as a butler tidied up his enormous bedroom, he spotted his lost blue toy truck underneath the king-sized bed. Not expecting an answer, he asked:

_What’s your favorite toy truck?_

_The green one._

The voice was so bright and cheery Killua was convinced he was speaking to the sun itself. It had a habit of rambling on and on until he would finally snap, patently annoyed but never enough stop. How could he? Their hours of chatting felt like an escape from his lonely, structured life. 

When Killua turned eight, he decided to tell his family about the mysterious voice. 

The Zoldycks were gathered in the dining area, Silva, his father, always seated at the head of the table. When he’d finally tied his napkin around his neck, they began eating. 

His heavyset, impudent older brother Milluki was the first to engage in conversation, gabbing about some new computer system while he stuffed his face with mashed potatoes. Illumi, his eldest brother, ate quietly, his black, hypnotic eyes roaming from one dish to the next. A butler spoon-fed their newest addition to the family—baby Kalluto—peas and apple sauce as his parents cut through their plates of filet mignon. Alluka was not present. 

“Mother, father,” Killua uttered, nervous beyond belief. “I h-have...I have something to say.” 

The clattering of forks and knives ceased. The table had gone silent, and everyone’s attention was directed toward him. He gulped. 

“What is it, dear?” His mother pressed, her veiny, manicured hands gripping the seat of her chair.

“There’s someone inside my head.”

Milluki still had crumbs on his cheeks and a sliver of turkey hanging from his gaping mouth. Illumi, who was rarely surprised, looked to their parents, who stared baffled at their white-haired son. 

The very next day, Silva and Kikyo Zoldyck dragged him to see a child psychologist. After hours of testing and observation, the doctor declared that absolutely nothing was wrong with Killua, and that his imaginary friend, which was “normal” at that age, would soon go away. 

Unsatisfied with the results, they came up with a strict regimen that would keep the mysterious voice at bay. 

Constant schooling, twenty-four seven. No breaks. No friends. No social life. 

As the future face of their enterprise, he needed to be perfect—physically _and_ mentally. They were convinced that if they kept his mind occupied with numbers and letters and all things educational, the voice in Killua’s head would be forced silent. 

Or so they had hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: lov3well


	2. Chapter 2

**_Thirteen Years Later_ **

**_New Year’s Eve_ **

-^-

  
  


Gon thought he might quit that night. Turn in his uniform and everything. 

“Chop chop, people! We’ve got a party of twelve arriving in a few minutes and there hasn’t been a clean table since lunch!” Bisky’s command sent the entire kitchen into a frenzy. Medallion’s lobby was packed with hungry, eager guests and the waiting list had only gotten longer. Gon quickly punched in the slew of orders on the menu tablet and scurried to the dispensers to make drinks. He couldn’t even remember if the couple he’d just waited on wanted Margaritas or Daiquiris or both or neither. 

He scratched his ear, uncertain.

“Corner!” Someone shouted. He barely moved away from the door before Yuna burst in with a tray above her head. 

“Behind you, Gon.” She wove past him and set the tray on a counter, leaning on it to catch her breath. Gon noticed the damp fabric near her underarms were stained yellow; The heat of the kitchen had the staff soaked in sweat, give or take the occasional blow of air from the broken AC. Cool temperatures were reserved for the dining area—as long as the guests were comfortable, it didn’t matter how much the employees suffered. 

Yuna sat up, tightening her ponytail and fixing her tie. She glanced at the drinks Gon was preparing, circumspect. “Make sure those people know cocktails are an additional five dollars. I have guests caviling all the time that I overcharged them for their drinks.” 

“Got it.” He answered, making a mental note to do just that. Yuna left the kitchen again with a new set of dishes just as Riku, the part-time Medallion host, stalked in complaining about the wait time. 

“When you guys are moving at a snail pace, I’m the one who gets blamed for it. Someone needs to limit each table to forty-five minutes tops because I’m tired of angry parents telling me I’m the reason their babysitters left!” He yanked open the storage closet, searching for complimentary gift cards to hand out to the upset guests. Gon peeked at the nine cooks in the back, wincing. They chopped and stirred tirelessly, hunched over the grill like stonemasons. 

Bisky, his oh-so-patient boss, was especially bitchy that evening, what with all the no-shows and the simple fact that it was New Year’s Eve. Gon had only agreed to work that night because servers got paid double on holidays and people tended to tip more when they were drunk and happy. 

Plus, the final semester was coming up, and he had textbooks to buy. 

“We’re running out of silverware and people are getting irritated that there aren’t enough spoons. Plus, we have a birthday boy at table seven who’s turning twenty-one in about ten minutes, so the singing team needs to get ready!” Bisky slammed the counter with her fist, startling him. He met her stern gaze, unperturbed. 

“Hurry it up, Gon. I can’t have you daydreaming while this place is overrun.”

“Technically, Bisk, it’s _night_ dreaming.” Gon retorted, placing straws in the fresh cocktails. Bisky couldn’t help but chuckle, her fierce, fuschia eyes turning mild. Even on a stressful night like this, Gon had a way of easing the pressure. 

She playfully pushed him aside. “Whatever, smart-ass. Go drop off those drinks before I _knock_ you into dreaming.”

“On it!” 

Gon stepped out into the dining area balancing the tray of cocktails, heavy chatter and light jazz music saturating the space. The ambiance of the restaurant, not including the kitchen’s tumult, was quite calm, with dimly lit bulbs hung above the tables and crisp, green plants arranged here and there. He made his way to the awaiting couple, exuberant. In a few moments, the new year would begin, and he’d be one month closer to graduating.

“Here you are. Would you like more time to look over the menu?”

The man nodded, unsure. “Yes, please. We’re still deciding on what to get.”

“Well, I’d like to recommend the Beef Bourguignon if you’re craving a good, hefty meal. I’ll be back in a bit once you’ve both settled on something.”

Before greeting his next table, Gon rushed to a corner, refilling the bin of silverware. He separated the salad forks from the dessert forks and the butter knives from the fish knives, then wrapped the soup spoons in fine cloth, tied it with ribbon, and placed it in a container for the bussers to grab. 

And without meaning to, he thought of him.

Killua.

He wanted to know what he was doing—if he was stuck at one of his elite family parties or among the thousands of onlookers watching the Times Square Ball Drop. He still didn’t know much about him, other than the fact that he was also twenty-one and living in the city. Gon had asked him time and time again for details, but Killua would never give him more than what he could already assume. The voice he’d been friends with since he was four was a secretive, reticent one. 

He let out a sound, this one being a tick. 

_You excited?_

The answer came faster than he’d anticipated. 

_What exactly would I be excited for, dummy?_

Gon smirked, hoping no one would notice.

_Well, it is New Year’s Eve, Killua. Aren’t you happy to be starting fresh?_

It took awhile for him to reply. Gon knew Killua didn’t care for sentimental things like that, but he loved getting a rise out of him. 

_If by “starting fresh” you mean continuing to listen to my coworker’s gossip until my brains fall out of my ears, then no, I’m not._

_Aww, don’t be like that._

_Dummy. What are_ _you_ _doing tonight, then?_

He internally sighed. 

_Just working. It’s packed tonight and everyone’s going nuts._

_Still won’t tell me where you work, huh?_

_I’ll tell you where I work when you tell me which borough you stay._

_Touché._

A guest tapped Gon’s shoulder, asking for more bread. He politely obliged, taking the empty basket to the kitchen. He passed a wobbling Daijiro holding a large, forty-pound cake in his arms, the classic “Happy Birthday to You,” tune resounding from table seven. 

“Hang in there, man. It’ll be over soon.” Gon assured him, patting his back. 

His fellow server snorted. 

“Yeah, if I don’t die first. I can barely even—uh, oh no!” Daijiro, despite his excellent footing, nearly toppled over with the cake. When he’d finally caught himself, Gon had already disappeared into the kitchen, guilt-ridden. 

_I guess I’m just glad I'll be clocking out soon._

_You’ve always been happy-go-lucky, Gon. That’ll probably never change._

He smiled at that. 

_They say the happiness of your life depends on the quality of your thoughts. If that’s true, then we should be the jolliest fools on Earth._

_God, you’re so lame._

_If you didn’t like it, you wouldn’t accept the sound requests._

_I could always ignore you, you know._

_You wouldn't though. What would you do without my constant jests?_

_Ugh._

Gon called out to one of the cooks to bake more rolls, then poured a half dozen glasses of milk for the birthday celebrants, a little distraught. He’d suddenly remembered that he still hadn’t gone over the assigned sections for the upcoming curriculum. His final was in a few months, and he needed to start early if he wanted to pass with flying colors. 

_Are you worried?_

_Yeah...how could you tell?_

_You didn’t say anything for a minute. You talk so much, it’s weird when you don’t._

_Oh._

_Is it about the exam? Gon, You’ve been studying nonstop and it’s not until mid-May. It’ll be fine._

_I know. It’s just so important to me._

_Trust me, I know what it’s like to stress. But maybe I can distract you?_

_How would you do that?_

_Let’s play a game. I want to pass the time anyway ‘cause our waiter’s taking forever._

_Oh, so you_ _are_ _doing something tonight._

_I never said I wasn’t, doofus._

_You never said you_ _were_ _, either._

_You never asked._

Gon lifted the beverage tray, grabbing the fresh bread basket on his way out of the kitchen. His skin was met with the chill of the dining area once again, a small convenience to keep him attentive. He set the basket at the correct table, smiled at its occupants, and continued on, gripping the tray carefully as a family near him left the restaurant, stuffed and satisfied. 

_Fine. What kind of game?_

_Tell me about the people you see. What do they look like? What are they doing?_

_Okay._

He arrived at table seven and handed a milk glass to each guest. The plump birthday boy, whose cheap, store-bought, polka dot name tag read _Steven_ , frowned at him. 

“Is everything alright, sir?” Gon asked, though it was quite clear the man was intoxicated. 

“My mommy usually gives me apple juice with my cake. Why didn’t you bring apple juice?”

Gon had to suppress a laugh. “I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t serve apple juice at Medallion. Would you like something else? We have Coke, Pepsi, Sprite, lemonade, fruit punch, beer, cocktails, wine—”

The upset man clutched the edges of the table and shook it vigorously, enraged. “I said I want apple juice, you moron! Can’t you fools do anything right? What’s a guy gotta do to get some juice around here?!”

People at the neighboring tables turned their heads, appalled. 

Yuna, who’d overheard the commotion, came to Gon’s rescue, trying her best to placate the guest before he made an even bigger disturbance. Gon took that as an opportunity to leave, glancing back at a flustered Yuna tending to a wailing, blubbering Steven. 

_I saw a grown man throw a tantrum over apple juice. Pretty cool, right?_

_Seriously? What’d he look like?_

_True red-head—freckles and all. Kind of on the heavier side._

_Reminds me of my fat-ass brother, Milluki._

_That’s rude Killu—wh-what? I didn't know you had a brother!_

_There’s a lot you don’t know about me. And I have three._

_Lucky. I'm an only child._

_Keep on with the game, Gon._

_Oh, okay. So, uh, who do you see?_

_I see a short, middle-aged blonde woman pacing from one corner to the next, barking demands at her employees. Man, is she annoying._

_Haha, reminds me of someone I know._

_Your turn._

_I see...a group of about twelve people standing in the lobby, covered in confetti. Probably just came from outside._

He picked up a clean notepad and secured his collar, ready to wait on his next table. Cheers from the Manhattan streets resonated through the restaurant walls, the clapping and screaming of the new year making Gon’s head hurt. The ball must’ve dropped. 

_It’s so loud tonight._

_Yeah, tell me about it. All I can hear is hollering._

_Anyway, who do you see?_

_I see a mother and father scolding their children, telling them they’re not getting dessert because they’ve behaved badly._

Gon turned at the noise of whining twin girls, their parents shaking their heads with stern expressions. Next to them, Riku seated the party of twelve at an extensive booth, offering a free meal if they didn’t request a different location.

A tremor slid through him. He concealed it, hoping no one would notice his uneasiness. 

_How can you tell what they’re saying?_

_I can read their mouths. I dunno, I’m kind of a people watcher._

_Oh, is that so?_

_Yeah, it is._

_Okay, well, I can do better. Hmmm…_

He scanned the vicinity, searching for the perfect pairing to describe. 

He chose his next table. 

_I see two dudes in suits, one with a buzzcut who’s talking a mile a minute, and the other who’s staring into space. He has bright, blue eyes and the whitest damn hair I’ve ever seen._

_You do?_

_Yup._

_That’s...odd._

_Why?_

Gon headed toward the men, handkerchief draped over his left forearm. 

_Your turn, Killua._

_I see a tall, tan waiter walking in my direction, seemingly focused. He’s got these big, chestnut brown eyes that glow like—_

“Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Gon and I’ll be serving you both tonight. Just so you know, we have our signature Pasta Primavera made from only the best ingredients, and all drinks except for cocktails are only ten dollars in marking of the new year. Can I start you off with any appetizers?”

The white-haired man straightened instantly, his eyes widening in shock. 

_Gon..._

_K-Killua?_

_Gon...I-I think...are you…_

The one with the buzzcut sat up arrogantly, scowling. 

“Took you long enough.” he rasped, looking Gon up and down. “Bring us the fried calamari and a bottle of Chardonnay.”

Gon almost didn’t hear him, his attention solely on the guy with silver bangs shielding his face. He quickly snapped out of it, jotting down Buzzcut’s order with a shaking, nervous hand. 

_This isn’t happening._

_I-I can’t believe…_

The buzzcut man glanced at his friend, then to Gon, back at his friend, and to Gon again, perplexed as to why they were staring at each other.

_Stop gawking at me, for Pete’s sake. You’re creeping out your friend._

_I-I’m just..._

_Killua? You need to say something. I know this is weird for you. It is for me too, but you need to act natural._

“And make sure the wine’s sweet.” The white-haired man— _Killua—_ insisted, azure eyes turned away from him. 

“Absolutely, sir.”

Gon closed the notepad and retreated to the kitchen, hyperventilating. He bumped into Bisky about halfway, almost knocking her down if it weren’t for her firm stance. 

“Finally, you’re moving fast enough. Keep up the good work, Gon!” 

She pet his shoulder and walked off. 

  
  
  
  


O—(0)(0)(O)(0)(0)—O

  
  
  
  


Killua couldn't think straight. He didn’t want to think at all. 

“What was that about?” Dave, the coworker he just could never seem to get rid of, leaned forward, his recessed chin and huge, crooked nose a little too close than Killua was comfortable with. Killua dodged the question, sweat gathering on his forehead despite it being noticeably cool in the restaurant’s interior. 

“What do you mean?” he croaked. 

“Huh? You damn near fainted in your seat just a moment ago. And that waiter...would you like me to complain to his manager? I’ll get him fired for making you uncomfortable like that, don’t worr—”

“Y’know man, this has been nice and all, but it’s time I get going.” He picked up his briefcase from underneath the table and slipped out of the quaint, wood-stained chair, intent on leaving before _he_ returned with their appetizers. He couldn’t take another stretched out, agonizing staredown. 

“Kill, wait!” Dave ran after him, shoving a ponytailed waitress out of the way. Killua disappeared behind the host’s stand until Dave had given up and retreated to the table, then sprinted out of the front door quicker than when the time had switched from 11:59 to 12:00. 

His eyes were met with bright, blinding city lights, even prettier now that the year had begun anew. Fresh snow littered the narrow, winding roads along with plastic streamers and blowers. He should’ve been happy, but he wasn’t. 

He was terrified. 

The mass of tired, worn out tourists flooded the sidewalks, energy spent after a long night of shrieking and hugging and kissing. Killua blended in with them, walking to the subway station in a troubled daze. The iPhone tucked in his pocket vibrated, the caller ID displaying Dave’s goofy, ill-proportioned face. He put it on silent. 

It was fairly warm underground, everyone crammed into the space like chickens in a coup. The M train wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes, so he took that time to process, resting his head against the cement wall. 

Next to him, he heard a commotion. 

_Wham!_

“Stop it, leave me alone!”

His head snapped to the side. A cluster of teenagers, each with a red swastika tattoo on their neck, surrounded a tall, brawny woman, hooting and hollering. Killua stepped closer, and then back, somewhere between anger and disbelief. 

One of the guys had tackled her to the floor, landing punch after punch while another reached for the pearls around her neck, the beads bursting across the tile. She cried helplessly as everybody in the station stood, watching. 

“Get up you fucking tranny!” The boy on top of her yelled, strangling her as she writhed in pain. “Show us the _man_ you really are!”

Another loud punch, followed by a tug at her wig. He threw it below to the tracks where it would be run over, and as the other teens held her arms down, he lifted her dress, feeling over her like dough. When she kneed him in the ribs, he struck her again, blood trickling from her nose in a river of crimson, her tears right behind it. 

Killua’s skin tingled, his hands shook. He wanted to step in, to make those fools wish they were never born. He’d remembered the ZW pistol he kept in his briefcase, usually for late nights when he came home from work and had to walk through a sketchy area. His fingers twitched, descending to the case’s clasp. He could easily whip it out—intimidate them. They’d run away and think twice before messing with transgender people. 

But he didn’t. 

“Get off of me you assho—” _Wham!_

Killua winced at the sound of her nose cracking. The teen’s fist was stained with her blood, dripping onto his shirt. His friends laughed uncontrollably, egging him on. 

“Take his purse, Jessie!” One of them shouted. 

A pink, expensive-looking bag laid beside her. The attacker snatched it and got off of her, kicking her twice in the ribs for good measure. He rummaged through it, taking her wallet, cellphone, and keys, tossing it aside. They all ran off, leaving a sobbing, moaning victim in their wake. 

A long screech, and then an abrupt stop. The train was here. 

No one really knew what to do. The woman was still on the ground, laying on her back in a semi-conscious state. Someone had called an ambulance, the sirens ringing from above the ceiling shaking dust onto their clothes. She would be okay, but justice would not be served. The NYPD, as busy as they were, did not deal with small hate crimes immediately. It’d probably be hours until she was questioned, and by then the perpetrators would be long gone. 

Killua boarded the train along with the rest of the alarmed witnesses. He didn’t dare turn around, or the guilt would eat him alive. That woman hadn’t done anything wrong—she was a regular person, waiting for the subway train just like any other New Yorker. But because of how she chose to identify, she’d gotten pummeled beyond belief, and he hadn’t stepped in even though he was able to. How could he have been so unsympathetic? 

In the end, he knew the answer. Killua Zoldyck, the gifted scholar and up-and-coming magnate, had an image to uphold. He was the pride and perfection of his father’s legacy and could not involve himself in violent, uncivilized matters such as this. 

Even If they hit close to home.

The ride was quiet, the white noise of the rattling gears calming everyone into silence. He rubbed his temples to soothe his pounding headache, placing the briefcase beneath his neck as a sort of hard pillow. 

A buzz. Killua accepted. 

_Hi, Killua._

_Not now, Gon._

_I just want to talk about what happened._

_There’s nothing to talk about. Please just leave it alone._

He sighed, shifting his position on the metal seat. 

_I didn’t expect it to be this soon. I’d thought we probably would’ve planned something or mayb—_

_Stop it, Gon._

_Why? I mean, surely you’ve at least_ _thought_ _about it. It was bound to happe—_

_I’m done talking._

Killua blocked Gon’s voice, squeezing his eyes shut in exasperation. It’d been a long, difficult night, and he just wanted to get to his apartment peacefully. Whatever the abrupt encounter meant for their future, well, he’d have to wait and see. 

For now, someone more important was expecting him. And that someone had better done their homework.

  
  


-^-

  
  


He set the keys on the granite countertop and flicked on the living room light. Shrugging off his suit jacket, he flung the briefcase on the handcrafted couch and kicked off his oxfords, drained. It was about two o’clock in the morning, and he had work in just a few hours. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, to forget about everything.

But his sister had heard him come in. 

“Big Brother, what took you so long?” Alluka emerged from her room rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The cotton nightgown she wore religiously was tattered a bit, her progressing, shapely body finally filling it out. He hadn’t expected for her to _develop_ so soon, considering she’d just started therapy and had been prescribed a low dosage. All the same, he was glad she’d gotten the chest she’d always wanted. 

“I went out to eat with a colleague.” He ruffled her brown hair. “By the way, happy new year.” 

“Same to you, brother.” She plopped on the couch. The fashion magazines stacked at the center table caught her attention, and as she paged through them, Killua spotted the chipped nail polish at her fingers. Knowing the reaction he’d get, he decided to play with her. 

“You’re usually so meticulous about your nails. Does this mean you’ve been focusing more in school?”

Alluka, seemingly absorbed in an article about Korean skincare, met her brother’s gaze. “Uh, sure. I guess you could say that.” She said dismissively. 

Killua was skeptical. 

“Did you finish chapter seven and eight of _The Sullen Road_?” he asked. 

“Yup.” She nodded. 

“And you’ve completed the geometry questions, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Memorized your vocabulary words? You know you have a quiz on them.”

“Both the spellings _and_ the definitions.”

“Good girl.” He kissed her forehead lightly. Alluka set the magazines back in their stack and shuffled back to her room, still a little girl at heart despite the apparent changes. Before she shut the door, she poked her head out.

He watched her lovingly, thinking that if anyone or anything were to harm her, he’d slit their throat. 

“Big Brother?” Her round, half-shaded face glimmered in the dark. 

“Yes, Alluka?”

“I’m almost out of estrogen tablets.” 

He smiled, but it was half-hearted. “No worries. I’ll get some more from the pharmacy tomorrow...or actually, today.”

His sister giggled her effortless, angelic giggle, and Killua’s chest rose, remembering the subway incident in a flash. The same impulse, the same instinct to protect spread a rage through him like fire in a forest. He knew that no matter how much he cared for her— _lived_ for her, he couldn’t shield his sister from the horrors of the world. 

That bothered him. 

After she was gone, he flopped on the sofa, lifting his wrist above his head to check his watch, then let his arm fall to his side. Bone-tired, he curled in on himself, the many noises from outside—traffic, shuffling feet, media broadcasts, loud phone conversations, garbage trucks—penetrating his ears all at once. But It didn’t take long for sleep to overtake him, and he didn't fight it, hoping he’d set his phone’s alarm clock to the right time. 

And he dreamed. 

  
  
  


_“Brother, help!” Alluka screamed, thrashing around erratically in an attempt to douse the flames. The blaze only grew stronger, hotter, and Killua couldn’t do much but scream with her. His legs wouldn’t budge—his body was locked, unwilling to move an inch. He felt helpless, useless._

_“It hurts! Oh my goodness, it hurts! Someone help me!”_

_She fell to the ground, unable to hold herself up. The pretty outfit she wore was now reduced to rags and frayed at the edges, exposing her charred skin. Her cries went ignored, with no one there to console them. And Killua still couldn’t move._

_Fear._

_Fear had done this to her. It was fear that resided in the hearts of those who didn’t know her, but took it upon themselves to harm her. It was fear that kept Killua from coming to her rescue, from scooping her up in his arms and taking her away to a place where no one could find her, a place where she would be safe and free._

_“Brother, where are you? Don’t you love me? Why would you leave me like this? Brother!”_

_He wanted to vomit. He almost did, but his body wouldn’t allow him to do that either. What was wrong with him? This was his little sister, his heart and soul and all things between. He was so stupid, so weak. He was her guardian, sworn to look after her no matter what obstacles she faced. He didn’t deserve to be called her brother. He didn’t deserve her. Killua was unworthy of her kindness and innocence and pure-hearted nature._

_Why couldn't he freaking move?_

_The cries had quieted, the flames had ceased. He gaped at the grim figure that was once his precious sister, his Alluka._

_Nothing but ash._

  
  
  


Killua was drenched in sweat. He shivered, gripping the arm of the sofa in panic. He’d expected it to be late morning, but no—he’d only been asleep for about thirty minutes, and the moon still shone brightly through the curtains of his window. 

He made his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. The nightmare had left him feeling anxious, and he needed something to calm his nerves. The drink sent an icy streak down his throat, easing the tension in his chest as he breathed in and out. 

It was okay. He would be okay. _They_ would be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: lov3well


	3. Chapter 3

-^-

Gon opened his notebook to the next blank page, less than eager to take notes as Professor Wing’s monotone voice boomed throughout the lecture hall. Quantum physics wasn’t his favorite, but it was a required course and he needed the credits. 

“Nearing a century since its inception, the quantum world is as lively as ever. Its signature manifestations, such as superposition, wave-particle duality, uncertainty principle, entanglement and non-locality were long confronted as weird predictions of an incomplete theory, paradoxes only suitable for philosophical discussions, or mere mathematical artifacts with no counterpart in the physical reality. Nevertheless, decades of progress in the experimental verification and control of quantum systems in relation to conscious beings have routinely proven detractors wrong.”

Wing set a pamphlet on the podium, adjusting his glasses to read. Gon looked around at the many bored faces concealed by hoodies or facedown on the desktops; The senioritis had hit hard, what with it being close to graduation. One girl popped her bubblegum just to blow it up again, twirling the ends of her ponytail. A boy a few rows down tapped his foot in a way that made his desk shake, his eyes barely open, drooling. Gon himself was tempted to slump in his chair and scroll through Instagram, but knew it’d be best to pay attention. Finals were near. 

“We now know that consciousness is understood as complementary to its material substrate, the brain, and hence as capable in principle of having its own access to reality. The other requirement is that dogmatism, both on part of science and on part of religions, is put aside and spirituality is understood as a hitherto neglected area of investigation that needs to become part of science as a method of inner experience.”

Gon scrawled the key points, disinterested. To be honest, he already knew a lot about the subject, having over-studied for his pre-entrance exams. But Wing seemed oddly passionate about it, so he took that as a hint to be thorough; Anything could be on that test. 

“It may be possible that the universe itself could be a single, self-entangled object and so could our brains. And if quantum physics is able to prove this, it just might change our entire conception of reality and consciousness.”

He took a sip from his coffee thermos, hoping the three shots of espresso would keep him awake long enough to get through class. There was still an hour and a half left, and Wing wasn’t getting to the point fast enough. 

“Which poses the question,” Wing started, raising his index finger. “Could an entanglement of minds exist given a certain pattern of genes, cells, and atoms? And if physicists could soon identify the relationship between spirituality and science, what do you think would arise from their findings?”

He scanned the room for a raised hand. Everyone was either too tired or too bored to answer, the steady whir of the ceiling fan the only sound left. 

“Hmm, okay.” He tapped his foot, pondering. “How about this: Whoever provides the best response receives fifty points added to their final grade.”

The hall erupted in gasps. Hands flew up, each student set on getting the extra credit that would almost guarantee a pass. Wing took his time choosing, walking from one side of the room to the other. 

“Ichika, what is your prediction?” Wing asked, gesturing over to a stout girl with glasses. She seemed very pleased to have been called on, setting her books aside to speak.

“Yes, it is possible. I’d say that most mental illnesses would become easily curable because doctors could administer cognitive remedies instead of medicine. Conditions like depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, and post-traumatic stress disorder would soon be small hiccups in the emotional wellbeing of humanity.”

“Interesting.” Wing nodded. “But not extraordinary.” 

He moved on to the next person, and Ichika huffed, crossing her arms in annoyance. 

“Toshi, how about you young man?”

An obnoxious, stuck-up guy—likely a trust fund baby—leaned back in his seat with a smug expression. “It’s simple, really. Law enforcement would have an easier time arresting criminals by examining their memories through the use of advanced technology. That way they would know for sure if a person committed an offense instead of having to drag it out by investigation.” He grinned, thinking he had it in the bag.

Professor Wing chuckled. “That’s very sensible, Toshi, yet it isn’t quite the innovative, original response I’m looking for.”

Toshi scoffed, face turning apple-red. He ran a hand through his spiky, overly-gelled hair. “Whatever.”

“Let’s see.” Wing looked over to the fourth row, his piercing, eager gaze moving across the horizontal line of students. “You,” he pointed. “What do you surmise?”

Gon looked up from his notes, realizing all eyes on were him. Wing stood in the front center with his arms crossed, waiting for an answer. 

“Um,” Gon hesitated, slightly nervous as if the time had stopped. “Well, I…”

It suddenly got hot—excessive, uncontrollable sweat beading on his forehead, the air in his lungs going thin in seconds. He took a short breath, searching his mind for something, anything. 

“In today’s world, we belong to many different communities, but we share two communities to which we all belong. We are all members of humanity, and we all belong to the global biosphere.” Gon exhaled, trying his best to elaborate without coming off as pretentious. “We are members of oikos, the Earth Household, which is the Greek root of the word ‘ecology’, and as such we should behave as the other members of the household behave—the plants, animals, and microorganisms that form the vast network of relationships that we call the web of life. 

He bit his lip trying to form more sentences, wanting so desperately to melt in his chair. 

“The outstanding characteristic of the Earth Household is its inherent ability to sustain life. As members of the global community of living beings, it behooves us to behave in such a way that we do not interfere with this inherent ability. This is the essential meaning of ecological sustainability. As members of the human community, our behavior should reflect a respect of human dignity and basic human rights. Since human life encompasses biological, cognitive, social, and ecological dimensions, human rights should be respected in all four of these dimensions.”

A bunch of _wows_ and _woahs_ came from the surrounding desks. The attention was still on him, but it fell lighter somehow. 

“So I guess what I’m trying to say is that we already have an entanglement of minds. We’re all connected by the elements—sharing water, air, earth, and fire. We have a place in the environment and we affect other living beings in every way possible. Our minds are entwined with nature. We all see the same sun and the same moon.”

The tense, awkward silence that followed was too much for Gon to bear. He dropped his head, pretending to write notes so as not to feel awkward. 

“What an insightful opinion.” Wing smiled, clapping his hands in delight. “Definitely not the response I was expecting, but a valid one. If I don’t hear anything that tops it, you will be awarded the extra fifty points.”  
  


Gon blinked erratically, shocked at himself. He hated Wing for putting him on the spot like that but was glad he could finally relax about his grade. As other students tried their best to supersede him, Gon jotted down more important details into his notebook, smiling inside. 

Then heard a ding. 

_Hi._

_Hey! I mean, uh, what’s up?_

Gon hadn’t expected to hear his voice—the friendly, cheeky voice he’d grown so accustomed to.

_Sorry about what happened._

_Oh, that? It was nothing. No worries._

Indeed, it had been a month since he last spoke to Killua, and the frustration from constantly being ignored had gotten to him. He spent hours laying awake at night, trying to get through, hoping that their unexpected run-in hadn’t frightened Killua from ever talking to him again. 

_I was rude to you though. That wasn’t fair. It’s not like we planned to see each other, and I acted like it was your fault._

_You’re always rude, Killua. I’m used to it._

_And you’re still as blunt as ever._

_Haha._

“You’ll need to try harder, students. I don’t want typical, average answers—think outside of the box! If you want to become engineers, you'll need to be creative. It takes a lot of ingenuity to be successful in the world of science, and your brain must be your sharpest tool.”

_What are you doing?_

_I'm in class. Man, I can't wait for this to be over._

_Oh, then I’ll leave you be. Sorry._

_No! Don’t go!_

He didn’t know why the thought of Killua leaving had upset him, looking around self-consciously as other students gave their best hypotheses, thankful that no one noticed his worried demeanor. 

_Huh? Why not? You need to focus._

_It’s fine, Killua. I already know all of this stuff. My professor’s just rambling on about nothing._

_Okay, if you say so._

_How have you be—_

_Something happened, you know. That night._

_Really? What was it?_

_Something...bad. I couldn’t...I didn’t…_

_You didn’t what? Tell me, Killua._

“Well, you've all provided great responses, but the recipient of the points is still Gon. I am very happy with our progress today, so I’ll let you all leave a little earlier.” The professor announced, closing the pamphlet.

“Class dismissed.”

Everyone sighed. Wing stood near the doorway, waving goodbye as students made their way out of the lecture hall, their defeated faces downturned. 

Gon was elated when class had ended, but that joy quickly dissipated when he remembered Killua’s uneasy tone. 

_Killua?_

_Do you know any transgender people, Gon?_

Gon was taken aback. 

_Uh...no. N-Not that I know of. But, uh, I’d like to._

_Do you...care about them? Do you think they should be protected?_

_Of course! They’re people, Killua. Everyone deserves to be protected. But why are you asking this? What happened?_

_It’s just that...h-hold on, Gon. Someone’s trying to get my attention. I’ll sound you again in a few minutes._

Gon gathered his materials, scuttling down the rows of desks and out of the classroom, confused and a bit agitated. What was Killua so bothered about? Why wouldn’t he just tell Gon what the problem was instead of beating around the bush? 

He stepped into the winter breeze, pushing the unanswered questions to the back of his mind as he passed barren oak trees and frozen benches, unlit lamp posts and snow-covered sidewalks. Gon had come to love Bilkbore University’s placement in the city, its tan brick buildings standing against the February sky like vanilla wafers dipped in frosting. 

It was a typical city school, with over fifty-thousand students coming from different backgrounds and cultures, united in their uniqueness and intellect. There were twenty-three residence halls based in Downtown Brooklyn, each located near a bookstore, restaurant, or bar. It didn’t take long for Gon to embrace the urban lifestyle; He liked the convenience of being able to do just about anything without traveling too far. 

Gon cupped his hands and blew into them, burying them in his coat pockets. As he strolled through the main campus, he reflected on his long academic journey and the motivation behind it all. 

His acceptance to one of the most diverse, liberal, and visionary universities in the country was due partly to hard work, and partly to his admiration for the greatest ecologist of all time: The late Kite Klein. 

If Earth were a mystery, Kite was the sleuth. A true observer, he understood the hidden language of grass and the scattered secrets of clouds. He held a deep respect for it, ensuring that it would remain fruitful and pure for as long as possible. 

He’d dedicated his life to the good of the environment, and so would Gon. 

Having grown up in the northeast, Gon knew nothing other than nature—he’d _lived_ and _breathed_ it, wanting to venture to its furthest corners before falling off the edge. He treated the space around him as a gift, one with wide, grassy plains divided by quiet rivers, with brisk, clean air and stupendous mountains of beauty. 

Gon had read so many of Kite’s printed works; From field notes to autobiographies, he was intrigued by the man’s innate ability to connect with the living world. He aspired to be just like him—even down to the university he attended and the degree he obtained, but also wanted to surpass him in a way, choosing to become a creator of nature instead of a spectator. 

An environmental engineer. 

He would use the principles of engineering, soil science, biology, and chemistry to develop solutions to environmental problems. He would work to improve recycling, waste disposal, public health, and water and air pollution control. He would help to prevent and protect the population from harm and enhance people’s quality of life. He would become the future, and he couldn’t wait. 

A popping noise interrupted his thoughts. 

  
_I’m back._  
  
_Good. Class finished early, so I’m heading back to my dorm._

_Don’t you just hate when people talk about the most tedious things?_

_Tell me about it. My roommate is guilty of that times ten._

_Zushi?_

_Yeah. He rambles constantly about the underproduction of spinet pianos as if they were ever in demand._

_I couldn’t handle that. You’re a strong person, Gon._

He unlocked the door to his room, shrugging off his coat and setting his binder on the desk. He’d gotten lucky with this set up—it faced The Brooklyn Bridge, which was now enveloped in sheets of snow. 

He grabbed a hot chocolate packet from the small closet along with some milk from his mini-fridge, poured the ingredients in a mug, and sat on his rolling chair. 

_I’m making your favorite drink._

_Hot chocolate? I hate you._

_Don’t hate the player, hate the game._

_Smart-ass._

_I learned from the best._

_I kind of wish I could drink it with you._

That surprised Gon. He blinked a couple of times, until finally, he remembered he was in the middle of a conversation. 

_I-I do, too._

_But I have a feeling you didn’t add sugar. You don’t strike me as someone with a sweet tooth._

Gon could tell that he was trying to play it off, to change the subject. 

_You’d be right. Although I do enjoy a good Twizzler every now and then._

_Licorice? That’s so gross!_

_No, it’s not! Just ‘cause my tastes are different from yours doesn’t mean they’re gross!_

_Are to!_

_Are not!_

_Are to!_

_Are not!_

_Are t—_

Zushi barged into his room, surveying the scattered textbooks and papers on the desk surface. To him, Gon appeared to be studying, but Killua was only a thought away. 

The music technology major flopped on _his_ bed, kicking his feet in the air as if he were lounging at home. 

“It smells sweet in here. Whatcha making?” Zushi asked, hugging Gon’s pillow like a teddy bear. Gon sucked his teeth, trying to keep the annoyance off of his face as he opened the microwave and pulled out the steaming mug of hot chocolate. 

“Nothing big, Zush. Just a drink.”

“Sounds good. I was about to head to my composition class but remembered that I forgot one of my folders in here.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Gon pointed under his bed. “It’s right there.”

Zushi reached beneath the bed frame, and all Gon could think about was Killua and his situation. He didn’t know how to broach the topic again but could figure it out if only his roommate would scat. 

“Dang, it’s all crumpled. Don’t you hate when that happens?” He sat up, flattening the folder with his thumb. 

“Yeah, I do. Say, why don’t you—”

“Gon! When did you cut your hair?” He parted from the mattress and hovered around Gon’s head, inspecting his hairstyle. 

“Yesterday.” Gon muttered, rubbing his brow. 

“It’s nice. Real nice.” 

“I know.” 

“And it fits you!”

“Yes. Yes, it does.” 

“It sticks up at…”

Gon drowned out his blathering, forcing himself to only focus on Killua’s voice. Eventually, Zushi would go away, but for now, Gon needed some answers. 

_Killua._

_Yes, Gon?_

_What were you gonna say before?_

_Oh, that._

_Yeah._

_I was...I guess I just…_

_Spit it out, Killua._

_I saw one. A transgender person, I mean. She got beat up. Bad. A-And I didn’t really do anything. I just stood there._

_When?_

_On the night that...you know...I was on my way home, about to ride the subway, and that’s when it happened._

_It wasn’t your fault. That’s just the way the world is._

_You don’t_ _understand_ _. I just stood there and watched it, and I could’ve helped. That was so cowardly of me._

_No._ Gon clasped the mug, the chocolatey liquid sloshing inside. He didn’t like Killua talking about himself that way. 

_You’re not a coward. It wasn’t your fight. It’s okay, Killua._

_How can you say that? You weren’t there. You didn’t see…_

_I didn’t need to be to know that it had nothing to do with you. It was out of your control. You can’t blame yourself for others’ mistakes._

_I know you’re right. But I just can’t stop thinking about it._

_Try to. It isn’t healthy for you to obsess over something like that. You need to give yourself a break. Here, why don’t we talk about season three of Graywatch?_

Gon just wanted Killua to relax. For someone so composed, he was very high-strung and sensitive. But why?

_Oh man! Do you remember the part when Richard lied about sleeping with Abby?_

_Yeah. And when his wife caught them in bed together, he couldn’t even look at her._

_Also, how did you react when it was revealed that Sasha was the actual killer instead of Tom?_

_I nearly fell out of my seat!_

And they chatted like that for however long, Gon babbling about random things and Killua teasing him for his enthusiasm. They chatted until the morning turned to noon, the sparkling flakes of white falling gracefully outside. 

Gon’s soul was at ease. Talking to Killua never felt like a diversion, something he did just to pass the time. He loved figuring out what made Killua smile and what made him frown, his favorite food (chocolate) and his plans for the future (which Gon desperately hoped included himself). 

No matter what, Killua was still his imaginary friend, even if their chance meeting had been real. 

  
  


-^-

_“Gon.”_

_Someone called him, their voice soft and patient. Gon liked that._

_“Gon, you’re gonna miss it. Get up, silly.”_

_He shifted, then sat up, surprised by the feeling of grass against his skin. He found himself in a colorful meadow, the endless mass of flowers and sunshine filling his path._

_A hand took his._

_“I was wondering when you’d wake up. C’mon, let’s go!”_

_They ran through the field of flora, their bare feet smacking on the rough dirt. The hand he held felt warm and comfortable in his own, and he knew immediately that he never wanted to let go—that letting go would mean leaving paradise._

_“Where are we going?” Gon asked, his spirit high._

_“You’ll see.”_

_They ran faster, and Gon spotted a swarm of butterflies near the hollow of a tree. The wind on his face felt cool, the air tasting sweet and new. He wanted to run forever without losing his breath, to run until time was nothing but a concept and his legs could no longer move. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and when he looked up he squinted at the sight of yellow, happy rays._

_A push against his shoulder. They stopped._

_“We’re here.”_

_He didn’t know what to say. It was almost too beautiful to look at, as if it were wrong to witness such magnificence with the human eye._

_“Do you like it?”_

_“I-I...how did you…?” He stuttered in disbelief._

_“Don’t worry about it. I just wanted you to see it for yourself. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”_

_A waterfall._

_One that glistened like thousands of diamonds falling into space. It was so clear, so pure, so pretty—Gon wanted to touch it badly. The splash of water, once it met the bottom, sounded heavenly, like a chorus of nymphs singing the loveliest of notes._

_“This type of waterfall is only located in one place.” Gon stated, his chest rising as he considered the possibility. “Are we in…?”_

_“Yes, Gon, we are.”_

  
  


He blinked slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He could tell by the dim shade of the room that he’d slept for a long time—at least twelve hours. Zushi snored heavily in the neighboring dorm, his thick, labored breaths carrying through the thin walls. The mattress creaked as he sat up, stretching his arms above his head. 

Had he fallen asleep on Killua? He must have, he didn’t remember saying goodbye. 

Gon swung his legs over the edge of the bed, deciding to occupy his mind with more studying. He took out his laptop, opened a page about plate tectonics, and dug in his pen holder for a ballpoint pen, writing paragraph after paragraph of lengthy, mundane information. 

He noticed a sticky note left on the screen, a simple reminder to borrow a book from BU’s library. Underneath, however, was a scribbled message that he could barely make out until he leaned closer. 

  
  


**_Treatise of Secreta Mentis_ **

  
  


The words were barely pronounceable, a foreign language Gon had never heard, let alone understood. It sounded like the title of something...sacred. Something that not too many people knew of. Something he probably wasn’t supposed to find. 

He typed the words into Google, moving restlessly as a catalog of websites he’d never visited before appeared on the screen. He clicked the one at the very top, more exhilarated than he’d care to admit. It was his nature to be curious. 

The site didn’t seem legit—it looked like a knockoff web page designed by some amateur who needed something to do. He scrolled through it until he saw the mysterious name, reading carefully, trying to find some context behind it. 

A pop-up appeared.

  
  


_IF YOU SEEK ANSWERS MAN CANNOT PROVIDE_

_WITHIN THIS BOOK YOU MAY CONFIDE_

_IF YOU POSSESS THE ABILITIES LISTED HERE_

_PREPARE TO LIVE YOUR DAYS IN FEAR_

  
  


And it disappeared. 

Gon’s mind went blank for a few seconds. He tried to register what he’d just read, going over the rhyme over and over again. It was puzzling. Dark. 

Another one appeared. 

_DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAITH OR FATE?_

_YOU’LL NEED BOTH TO KEEP YOUR MATE_

_MANY MILLENNIUMS HAVE GONE BY_

_AND NOT A SOUL HAS SEEN INSIDE_

  
  


What was happening? He didn’t know. He almost shut the laptop, but his eagerness to learn more overtook his fear. 

  
  


_THIS POWER IS SO VERY RARE_

_THAT ONLY ONE SPECIAL PAIR_

_MAY LOOK UPON THESE PAGES_

_THAT HAVE NOT SEEN LIGHT IN AGES_

  
  


He tried to convince himself that he didn’t understand. That would definitely be the easier option, but deep down inside, he knew. 

What he and Killua shared was astounding. 

  
  


_WHAT WILL YOU DO?_

_IF THE TWO OF YOU_

_HAVE NOWHERE TO TURN_

_AND YOUR CONNECTION BURNS_

  
  


_WHERE WILL YOU GO?_

_IF THE OTHER IS IN WOE_

_AND THE STARS THAT ALIGN_

_WILL NO LONGER SHINE_

  
  


_LIKE THE MOON AND SUN_

_YOU WILL ALWAYS BE ONE_

_BUT IF THE BOND IS SEVERED_

_IT WILL BE GONE FOREVER_

  
  


The pop-ups finally stopped, and he realized all-too-late that he’d been biting his lip when blood trickled down his chin. In a split second, the screen went pitch-black, leaving Gon with just the tiny light from the main hall. 

His fingers trembled so severely he dropped the pen. It rolled across the floor until it hit the end of his chair. He questioned if he’d actually witnessed what he just witnessed or if it was some illusion. Did it even matter? The strange, uncomfortable feeling it left him was proof enough. 

He felt stuck. The stillness of the room was killing him, and he couldn't gather his thoughts quickly enough to make sense of anything. 

As much as he wanted to believe that the mysterious verses didn’t apply to him—that they were just a glitch in the system and whoever had created the website was a weird, deranged prick—he couldn’t deny the truth. Now that he’d seen Killua’s face—spoke to him, looked into his _eyes,_ he needed to get to the bottom of just what their ability was. 

But what if Killua didn’t agree?

Despite his determination, Gon couldn’t force him to interact. On their first encounter, Killua had not seemed the slightest bit interested in conversing with him, considering he ran out of Medallion before Gon could even come back with appetizers. 

He needed Killua to realize that the invisible string that bound them together was worth tightening. Their friendship, though distanced and non-physical, was meant to be protected. Gon could feel it in his gut. 

He tucked the sticky note in his binder. 

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: lov3well


End file.
